


Защита для всех (Protection for Everyone)

by Monika-s Moniker (Dan_Francisco)



Series: The Sleepwalkers [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Betaed, Drama, F/M, Flashbacks, One-Sided Attraction, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28833744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dan_Francisco/pseuds/Monika-s%20Moniker
Summary: January, 1918. Mercedes has spent four long years on the frontlines in France with the Russian Expeditionary Corps as a medical officer. But things go wrong during the Christmas Offensive. Forced to evade the German Army to make it back safely, Mercedes reflects on the nature of war, recalls easier times at Garreg Mach, and reminisces about the love she found there.
Relationships: Raphael Kirsten/Mercedes von Martrtz
Series: The Sleepwalkers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861168
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Защита для всех (Protection for Everyone)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the amazing and wonderful QuoteMyFoot !

_January 6 th, 1918_

_Somewhere near Metz, German Empire_

Christmas had always been Mercedes’ favorite time of year. What better way to show her devotion to the Lord than attending the All Night Vigil? Thankfully for her, the French were accommodating of her unit’s religious needs and allowed them to requisition some nearby land so they could build a little Orthodox church all their own. It was nothing like the church she had grown up in in Kamyshin, but any church was a good church as long as it was built in God’s name.

Tonight Mercedes was the only one in the church for the All-night Vigil, but she didn’t mind. The company bishop had retired some time ago, and other soldiers that typically attended services had been called away by the sergeants and lieutenants before the vigil had begun in earnest. All she hoped was that her song would reach God’s ears in Heaven, and He would bless her unit and give it divine luck for the rest of this war.

Somebody came in the church behind her as the large wooden doors creaked open. Mercedes kept her head down – she hadn’t finished the Six Psalms yet – as they approached.

“Captain von Martritz, I didn’t expect you to still be here.” _Podpolkovnik_ Aleksandr Makarovich Lomtev wasn’t usually one to come into church. He paid lip service to God and church rituals, but otherwise busied himself reading the latest scientific discoveries in math, physics and chemistry. She’d come to understand a little of these things from Annette and Felix and appreciate the study of God’s workings, but _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev did not seem to approach them in that way. Mercedes made sure to pray extra hard for Aleksandr’s good health and well-being on Sundays.

Mercedes finished the last of the Six Psalms and considered this an appropriate break. Surely God would understand. “ _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev, I always have to make time to pray to God. After all, it’s Christmas Eve! I need to make sure our battalion is blessed in the coming days!”

Aleksandr Makarovich didn’t appear impressed with this answer. His eyes, hard-set as ever, had seen many battles here with the French and some days Mercedes didn’t think he remembered a day where he wasn’t at war at all. She thought he looked forlorn, maybe desperate for something to change. “I see,” he said quietly. “Well, Christmas may have to wait a few days, Captain. The offensive, remember?”

“Even more reason to be here tonight,” Mercedes said. “We’ll need all the blessings and protection God can give us.” The upcoming offensive concerned her, least of which because Mercedes wasn’t sure why the French believed it was necessary to begin another offensive in winter. The previous French expedition near Straßbourg in November had what the regiment called ‘limited success’ though Lieutenant Colonel Lomtev believed it was because the French were ‘uncommitted’ more than anything else. Mercedes didn’t see what another attack with _their_ battalion, _their_ regiment, and _their_ division would accomplish. More wounded soldiers, unfortunately. More places in their graveyard, and more souls for her to pray for in the hopes they’d be guided to Heaven.

Lieutenant Colonel Lomtev closed his eyes for a brief moment and sighed deeply. “We’re attacking on the 8th at sunrise. Be prepared.” With a sharp turn and clicking boots, he left Mercedes alone in the church. Attacking at dawn. How long would the artillery last? Would the army move _at_ dawn, or was that a vague timetable with no clear guarantee? More importantly, how many of the soldiers in their battalion would meet their end in this battle?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

* * *

_January 8 th, 1918_

_Somewhere near Metz, German Empire_

Mercedes had been up nearly all night praying. The moon cast a strange, otherworldly red glow as if trying to warn her of danger on the horizon. Clouds disrupted the moon’s rays from reaching the ground, hiding enemies in the dark and making everything seem more dangerous than it may actually be. An air of suspicion enshrouded the trenches as the battalion held their crosses and rifles close, whichever that particular soldier believed gave them more protection in the moment. Mercedes took the red moon as a sign from God that this offensive was an ill omen and prayed hard to ensure whatever it prophesied would never come to pass. Lieutenant Colonel Lomtev did not assign such beliefs to the moon and chalked it up to reflected light from a fire elsewhere on the front, or something like a lunar eclipse.

Either way staying up in the chapel left Mercedes exhausted. Her coffee this morning was bitter and only lukewarm, a consequence of having to keep fires contained to either the rear-line or within specialized dugouts in the trench to prevent too much light from bleeding out and exposing their position. By now the moon had mostly faded and was replaced by the morning sun that endowed the world with long, creeping shadows that looked more like disfigured horrors than anything else.

“The French set their barrage for forty minutes,” _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev said. “The soldiers go over the top after that.”

“ _We_ will,” she corrected. “I want to be there with them. Most of these medics are new, and they could use a guiding hand out there.”

She saw him rub his hands together, his breath drifting up ever so slightly in the cold as others shivered around them. “I need you here, Captain. I can’t have you out there getting yourself killed.”

“As much as I have faith in Him, _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev, we can’t expect God to do all the work. You may need me here, but those medics need me out _there._ Not to mention anybody wounded…”

He grumbled. Mercedes sipped her coffee as she waited for him to say something, but she could tell he was trying to figure out how to properly voice his concerns. “Fine,” he finally muttered. “If that’s how you want to end your war, then I’m not going to stop you.”

 _The end of the war._ Mercedes looked out at the no-man’s land between their trenches and the Germans. “End of the war” almost felt like a cruel joke, a prank that the French kept playing on them. Newspapers from Russia stopped reaching them here in France close to two years ago, leaving French papers and rumors from replacements their only means of being updated on how the Second Patriotic War was going back home. If even half of what they said was true Mercedes might not recognize Russia when she went back. For a few precious moments she had found herself back “home” but it was always brief and only when the Turks were feeling particularly generous and _never_ back _home_. It was always breaks in Sevastopol where the war was always on the horizon, ever-present and ever-threatening. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been in Kamyshin since the war begun in earnest.

The guns began to fire, the signal for the start of the artillery barrage. She’d never get used to how the shells whined as they flew through the air over her head, whether it was friendly artillery or not. Soldiers kept low in their trenches, praying or hoping to make it out alive. Mercedes found it somehow relieving how in the end, they always prayed for help and protection. Consciously or not, when death confronted somebody they sought out God’s help to guide them through. Silently Mercedes prayed that this offensive could be accomplished with relatively little bloodshed, though she knew such a prayer was fantastical at best. Long ago, Mercedes had envisioned Hell as a blazing inferno with burning embers and intense heat. That image had been replaced by the bitter cold of France, the constant shaking of the earth that accompanied each failed push and rattling cannonade.

Her cup ran dry fifteen minutes after the barrage began. Another twenty-five minutes later and blowing whistles cascaded down the trench from right to left. A loud _ura_ echoed in the cold of the approaching dawn as, one by one, each company rose out of the trenches and charged across the no-man’s land in a synchronized sacrifice. Mercedes let out an anxious breath and ran her thumb over her pistol’s holster as Lieutenant Bogatyryov prepared her whistle. Once again, she’d be going over the top. Once again, she’d face the enemy’s fire. Once again, she’d put her life in God’s hands.

“Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way,” Mercedes prayed, projecting so all near her could hear. “The Lord be with all of you!”

Lieutenant Bogatyryov blew her whistle, setting off the spark for her company to go up. Mercedes fell in behind a host of fellow soldiers as they clambered up the ladder and shouted defiantly. Explosions erupting behind her announced the beginning of the German counter-barrage.

Combat did not last long, or at least it didn’t _feel_ like long. She remembered storming the opposite trench with members of the assault squad. She remembered bandaging countless soldiers. She remembered redirecting her efforts when the rest of the regiment had caught up and they successfully seized the German defenses. She remembered taking the lives of enemy soldiers, lest they take her life first.

That last part always made her feel the worst, and she frequently tended to those she had shot if only to preserve their lives. Just because they were at _war_ didn’t mean she had to _kill_ them. Unfortunately her efforts were not always appreciated or ended well. More often than not, those she had just shot were fatally wounded. Her red cross was more like a sign from the Devil himself. In those moments she gave them their last rites as best she could, almost always with a moment of confusion when the German soldiers realized she spoke fluent German. It was always such a simple thing.

_“You speak German?”_

* * *

_January 8 th, 1907_

_Garreg Mach Monastery, Bohemia_

“You speak German?”

Mercedes smiled, a giggle unintentionally spilling out of her mouth as she ran her hair back. “Mhm!”

The boy across from her seemed confused. His huge nose wrinkled, and he took a massive hand to scratch his blonde hair. “But… you’re Russian. You’re in the Russian class, right?”

“I am! I’m a Volga German. Oh, but I speak Russian too if you’d like to learn it!”

The boy’s face twisted around before softening as a deep belly laugh erupted. “Haha, no, I think just French and English is enough for me. My grandpa always said people only got enough room for a few languages at a time. If I learned Russian, I think I’d forget how to speak German!”

Mercedes couldn’t help but laugh. She hadn’t known this boy long, but he was just so charming and funny. How could anybody resist him? “I’m so sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself! I’m Mercedes von Martritz.”

“Raphael Kirsten. It’s nice to meet you, Mercedes!”

“It’s nice to meet you as well, Raphael!”

Somebody from the Golden Deer class called him away. He waved goodbye and headed with his fellows to their next class as Mercedes offered a wave of her own to Raphael. Her heart fluttered just as he passed the corner, and all at once Mercedes felt as if there was a bubbling inside her chest that warmed her like a good cup of tea. Did he like pastries as much as she did? Would it even matter, in the end? Almost everybody liked pastries.

* * *

_January 14 th, 1907_

_Garreg Mach Monastery, Bohemia_

It had taken Mercedes the better part of the day to make the entire cake, but it was well-worth it. Her _medovnik_ had turned out perfectly, which in itself was a small feat she thanked God for since she hadn’t even _made_ one in over three years. She lamented not having any berries due to very few appropriate ones being in season, but their absence wouldn’t detract from the cake itself. After all, the honey was the star of the cake and that mattered more than anything.

“Oh wow!” Annette exclaimed. “You made a cake! What’s the occasion?”

Mercedes lightly tapped Annette’s hand away. “It’s not for my enjoyment. It’s a gift to a friend.”

“Can I be the friend?”

Lifting the cake stand away from Annette wasn’t that difficult, but stopping her from pawing at it _was._ Couldn’t she see this was for somebody important? “No! It’s for Raphael!”

Annette’s face dropped the smile as she stopped trying to grab the cake, a look of confusion gathering. “Who?”

“That doesn’t matter!” Mercedes said, finally able to keep the cake at a reasonable level. “I’ll make you something tomorrow, okay?”

Annette’s pout could melt a lot of people’s hearts, but Mercedes knew it wouldn’t take long for her to cheer herself up.

Mercedes wasted no time in bringing the cake right to Raphael’s room where he was hard at work studying. Two light knocks was all it took to bring him to the door, his shirt struggling to contain his muscles.

“Oh, hey Mercedes!” he said, smiling. “What’s that you got there?”

“It’s a cake for you!” she replied. “I thought you could use one as a reward for all of your hard studying and training!”

Raphael looked at the cake for a few moments as a wide smile appeared. “Oh wow, thanks! Hey, why don’t you come on in, we can share it! I’ll bet you’re hungry too after making this.”

“Oh, are you sure?” She looked around. Nobody seemed to be nearby, or if they were they certainly weren’t paying attention. “Well, I suppose I can.”

His room was, in a manner of speaking, not terribly tidy. Mercedes wasn’t sure how he had already accumulated so many varied pieces of paper just from a little under a week of classes. The floor was dotted with makeshift weights and bags of uncertain origin that looked like they were stuffed full of rocks. She hadn’t thought to bring another fork, but Raphael improvised with an army spoon that he said his grandfather used during the Franco-Prussian War. Cutting into the cake proved a little difficult with the knife she had brought, since it desperately needed to be sharpened, but Raphael didn’t seem to mind.

“Mmm, man, this is great,” Raphael said as he devoured the cake. “What’d you say this was?”

“It’s called a _medovnik_ in Russia,” she answered. “It’s a very popular dessert, but it takes a while to make.”

“I don’t care how long it takes! I’d wait all day for something this good!”

He didn’t seem to have figured out this entire display was for him. Mercedes didn’t much mind. After all, she may have been just a touch too subtle today. She’d have to find time to talk to him after classes or similar tomorrow, or the next day even, and ask him more about his sister Maya. He liked talking about her a lot, and surely such a kindly man would be grateful if she made sure to pray for his sister's well-being.

* * *

_January 8 th, 1918_

_Metz, German Empire_

They never looked like they were sleeping.

Mercedes had attended enough funerals in her service to the Church to know that they _never_ looked like they were sleeping. People always said the dead were at rest, and Mercedes did indeed believe that, but out here in France she didn’t see rest. She saw pain. A poor, unfortunate soul whose life had ended far too early. Their dead – and _only_ their dead, the Germans were not extended such kindness – were arranged in neat little rows waiting to be buried. Their white sheets weren’t for warmth and comfort, they were solely to cover the ugliness and brutality of war.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever,” she said quietly as she clasped her hands together. “Lord, please guide your children to Heaven. They do not deserve to suffer any longer.”

“Psalm 73:26,” _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev said. “Yes, I read it once upon a time.”

“I don’t doubt your knowledge of the faith, _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev.”

He sighed as he knelt down near one of the soldiers and closed their eyes. Mercedes didn’t realize they had been staring to the sky the entire time. “I know you don’t. I think you doubt my sincerity with it.”

“That thought may have crossed my mind a few times, yes,” she admitted. “I just don’t like to see the soldiers suffer, is all.”

“I understand. This is war, however. People die. No war was ever won by prayer.”

Mercedes smiled softly as she looked down at the dead soldiers before her. _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev’s black-and-white view certainly helped when discussing logistical issues, but when it came to matters of morality she found he was a poor conversationalist. Still, he tried with a modicum of seriousness and she appreciated that. “Have we not been told that God is on our side? The Emperor certainly believes that.” She gazed upon a dead German soldier, his body uncovered and left out in the street unceremoniously. “Their belt buckles say _Gott mit Uns._ I suppose they believe God is on their side too.”

“God seems a rather busy fellow, don’t you think?” He stood up and shook his head, brushing some dirt off his hands. “What was it you said yesterday? We can’t have God do all the work or something?”

Having her own words turned against her hurt more than any flesh and blood wound. “I was referring to the act of _saving_ lives, not _taking_ them.”

He hummed, folding his hands behind his back as he moved past Mercedes. “Naturally. Get some rest, Captain. We’re going to continue exploiting our success tomorrow, and I want us to move out early.”

Such a strange term, even though Mercedes had long ago become familiar with military speak. _Exploit our success._ As if the death of countless soldiers and scores more wounded was worthy of being called a ‘success.’ She never knew how others accepted the destruction of lives that was demanded of them each day. Mercedes looked to God for guidance and acceptance but it seemed others looked to the bottle or the cigarette, neither of which was much comfort for her. Maybe if she was lucky, it didn’t matter who or what anybody sought redemption in and this terrible war would end tomorrow. Maybe God would hear her prayers and end the war before anybody else died.

Then again, she had been praying for that since 1914.

Mercedes said a final prayer over the dead for both sides before turning away to find shelter for the night. Most of the soldiers occupied forward positions on Metz’s outskirts, wary of a German counter-attack, while the other officers in the regiment found houses to hide in and escape the elements. Mercedes found a home that seemed relatively unused and far enough away from other positions that she didn’t think it would be an artillery target, and immediately chastised herself for thinking such a thing. She was taking somebody’s house, squatting in it for no benefit but her own. She should regret first the events that ever led her to here rather than hope that it wouldn’t be annihilated by an artillery strike.

The house was relatively simple. It had a second story to it and looked to be one of the few newly-built family houses in the area. Some of the exterior decoration had been shaken loose by artillery and bare patches dotted the walls, but it still seemed to be standing strong. The door was a heavy wooden one marking access into the living room, kitchen and a small bathroom on the first floor, with a staircase leading up. Whoever had previously occupied this home left very quickly. Dust covered nearly every surface and the chairs had briefly been moved, but none of the plates in the cabinet were disturbed and the sole kitchen window’s glass still lay in front of the sink. Nobody had bothered to dust or sweep in what looked like years.

Mercedes made her way up. Three bedrooms presented themselves, two with beds broken apart for use elsewhere – probably the barricades they had climbed over to seize Metz in the first place – while the third had sheets that hadn’t been washed for years. Everything just felt like it had a thick layer of dirt and grime on it that no amount of wiping or scrubbing could get out. And yet… there were few other options. Besides, if she didn’t quarter here then this would have to be imposed on somebody else. Better for her to suffer for one night than anyone else, especially a soldier who had just spent the day fighting. They deserved a better bed than this one.

She looked at her watch as she set her pack down. Nearly five o’clock. The sun had already begun setting and made the world dim. Nothing more to do than rest and prepare for tomorrow; no light to write any last-minute reports by. Maybe that was a good thing. She could pray and retire for an early evening. Mercedes put her cap on a small nightstand and undid her hair, letting it flow freely down her shoulders. It felt great to finally have it down again after a long day in the field. Maybe there was even a river nearby that she could wash it in, get some of this dirt out. She couldn’t see one from the window, but looks could be deceiving. It was probably blocked by one of these other buildings.

Something boomed in the distance. She didn’t remember seeing anything other than broken glass and chunks of wood before it all went black.

* * *

_May 15 th, 1907_

_Garreg Mach Monastery, Bohemia_

Mercedes looked up to see a strange sight. A shell was flying over her head, but it was silent. In an instant it sailed over her, Dedue, Ashe and Ingrid before disappearing behind a tree-covered hill, where an explosion rushed past them seconds later. She prayed that she’d never be on the receiving end of such a terrible weapon in her life.

“To think of that…” Ashe muttered in amazement. “I don’t think you’d even hear the shell before it hits you.”

“Indeed. The sound moves slower than the shell,” Dedue explained.

Mercedes knew the math behind it made sense fundamentally, but it was such an alien and foreign concept to her that it seemed impossible. Clearly it was, however, since it was so obviously demonstrated in front of her. To think that if any of them went to war, they’d be facing these… hopefully war would be abolished soon.

Their little group headed back to the gun so they could receive their lesson in gunlaying techniques and another group could experience the disturbing serenity of a shell silently flying over their heads. It just so happened that Raphael was in the other group. She knew she recognized some of his classmates – that was either Marianne or Hilda next to him – but it didn’t seem like they recognized her. No time to talk, unfortunately, not when there was work to be done. Mercedes waved at him with a warm smile, which he returned in an instant.

It didn’t take long into their lesson for Raphael’s group to reach their destination and for Ashe to ask a multitude of questions about the techniques presented to them. Dedue crept up to her, almost unseen if she hadn’t noticed his shadow falling over her field notebook.

“Who was that?” he asked quietly. “The gentleman you waved to.”

“Oh, that was Raphael.”

Dedue took some notes. Mercedes wasn’t sure if they were related to the lesson. “I see. He’s a German, right?”

“Mhm. From Hamburg.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been spending quite a lot of time around him. Should I find this concerning?”

She stifled her laugh as best she could. “No, not at all. We’re… friends.”

“I see.” Dedue did _not_ sound convinced. But why would he care about who she talked to anyway? There was no threat to Tsarevich Dimitri Alexandre here. And even if there was, her talking to Raphael was the farthest thing from a threat that she could imagine. He was strong, but he could barely bring himself to hurt a bug. Their next free period couldn’t come soon enough.

“Gun ready!” one of the Knights shouted.

The leading Knight, a sergeant by the look of his sleeve, raised his hand up. Another Knight stood off to the side holding a lanyard, while the others covered their ears. Mercedes did the same while trying to clutch her notebook and pencil in her hand and found it wasn’t quite working. In one swift motion the sergeant threw his hand down and the gunner yanked on the lanyard, causing the gun to fire and forcing Mercedes to flinch unintentionally. She could practically feel the gun rattling her bones as she watched the grass ripple out from the shot.

She finally got the break she wanted a few hours later following a classroom lecture with Professor Casagranda. The school was feeling generous and granted them an hour long break before dinner. Naturally, she sought out Raphael. He was a comforting, warm presence even when the day was already perfect.

“Oh, hey Mercedes!” Raphael said. “I’m gonna go do some training, so I’m not sure if you want to come with me.”

“I don’t mind!” She immediately wrapped her arm around his hooked elbow. It’d taken her the better part of three months to teach him how to escort a lady properly, but it was worth the struggle to be able to do this with him. She felt safe around his arm, like nothing could ever go wrong with him next to her.

* * *

_August 20 th, 1907_

_Garreg Mach Monastery, Bohemia_

“Oh, Mercedes, I forgot to ask…”

“Yes, Raphael?” A million things flew in her mind, each one more fantastical than the last. She had realized long ago that Raphael was completely unaware of her feelings for him, but that was okay. He’d come around eventually. If nothing else, her prayers would be answered at some point and she’d finally find the courage to either tell him outright or he’d realize it. Surely.

“So, that little painting in your room. What is that? It looks really old.”

It took her a moment to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh! You mean my icon of Saint George! Yes, he’s the patron saint of soldiers and all those protecting Russia. I keep his icon with me so he’ll protect me no matter what I’m struggling with.”

Raphael nodded, but she could tell he was still struggling slightly with the concept. He rubbed his chin and looked deep in thought like understanding the icon itself would unlock the secrets to understanding life itself. “I thought you prayed to God, though?”

“I do,” she replied. “But Saint George is always looking out for protectors of Russia. After all, even God gets busy sometimes!”

“Huh. I guess I never thought of it that way,” Raphael pondered, before shrugging his shoulders and jutting his elbow out. “Talking about God made me hungry! Come on, let’s get an early lunch!”

An early lunch sounded good. She could ask Raphael about Maya some more and prod around with what he wanted to do after earning his commission. Today’s lunch included liverwurst sandwiches, mixed sauteed vegetables, and the monastery’s usual freshly-baked bread. Mercedes didn’t mind immediately moving her sandwich over to Raphael’s plate just as he instinctively shoveled over his vegetables onto hers.

“I don’t know why you don’t want your sandwich, Mercedes,” Raphael muttered in between massive bites. “This stuff is great.”

“I enjoy some meats, but liverwurst is… well, it’s about where I draw the line. I’d much rather have a nicely roasted chicken or turkey.”

Raphael moaned just from thinking about the idea. “Oh man, a roasted turkey would be good. Maybe I can find one and bring it back home for Christmas! That’d be a pretty good treat for Maya, I think.”

“How are you going to keep it from spoiling on the way home?” Mercedes asked, laughing at the idea of Raphael with a freshly-slain turkey slung over his shoulder. Maybe one day she could see that, except not on an absurdist trip back home but to return to a house – _their_ house – after a long day of hunting.

“Oh, I’ve got my ways. Though, I might have to hunt around my grandpa’s land. That might work better, actually.”

“Really? You should teach me one of these days! I’d love to know!”

Raphael’s face lit up – she loved it when she managed to do that – and he smiled wide. “Really?! Yeah, I can do that! Oh, uh, but not today, I need to do my training.”

“Are you going to carry the Maxim gun down the mountain again?”

“Even better – down, then back up _twice!_ And I’m going to do it with a belt of ammo too!”

“I’ll be waiting for you with plenty of water, alright?” She silently prayed that he wouldn’t manage to dehydrate himself or hurt something. That’d be the worst thing she could think of for him.

* * *

_January 9 th, 1918_

_Metz, German Empire_

Everything _hurt._

She slowly opened her eyes and immediately raised a stiff hand to the back of her head. A wet sensation greeted her and she drew it back in the moonless night. Was that blood? It smelled like it. Shakily, Mercedes stood up and propped herself up on the wall she had been thrown against. Every bone in her body ached. Finally, her vision began to come into focus, allowing her to see the room she had once been standing in. The wall was gone as was most of the floor, causing her to inch back lest she fall off into what was sure to be a half-destroyed lower wall. All was quiet save for her own intense, arrested breathing.

Mercedes uneasily raised her arm and checked her watch. The radium paint perfectly illuminated the hours and hands for her. Nearly two in the morning. How long had she been out? Where else was she wounded? The lack of a moon prevented her from being able to check for certain, but she didn’t feel blood anywhere else on her. Maybe more importantly, where was everyone else? Was her unit still here, or had the German counterattack driven them off? Only one way to find out.

The door to the house opened below her. Two pairs of feet stepped in. They sounded relatively relaxed.

“… _so I told him, you know, he can carry the Tankgewehr himself if he’s going to complain the whole time.”_ German. So the Germans _had_ taken Metz back.

The other person laughed. _“How’d he take it?”_

 _“You know how he is. Bitched some more._ ”

She could hear them stumbling in, cursing to themselves as they tried to get chairs rearranged right and settled down for the evening. If the Germans were here, she couldn’t stay here. She had to get back to her unit. The only thing stopping Mercedes from enacting a plan to get back was the rather prominent setback of not _having_ a plan.

Mercedes stepped as lightly as she could. Any small creak could give her away in this soundless night. The Germans below her were calm and relaxed. Why shouldn’t they be? They just secured Metz, didn’t they? There weren’t supposed to _be_ any enemies around. Unless… Mercedes realized she could barely see her own uniform. Surely the Germans couldn’t either. She could lie right to their faces and move along as if nothing was wrong. A twinge of pain hit her as she realized she’d have to do just that. _Forgive me, God._

_“Hey, what’s that?”_

_“This? Oh, just some gun I took off one of those French officers. Neat, huh?”_

_“I can’t see anything, you idiot. I swear, if you’re pointing that thing my way -”_

_“It’s perfectly safe, I haven’t pulled anything! See, the magazine’s even out!”_

A solid _clunk_ accompanied this assertion. Stealing things from the dead… Mercedes had seen it before and chastised whoever did it, but she knew that just meant they did it out of her sight. Knowing the Germans did the same didn’t much help her right now.

A gunshot rang out seconds later joined by screaming. The German had accidentally shot his friend. Mercedes suppressed a gasp as best she could, but realized in the end that the German probably couldn’t hear her anyway over the commotion.

_“Oh shit! Use your bandage, Distler! I’m going to go get help!”_

Distler only screamed in response, shouting that they didn’t have a bandage. Their friend rushed out and slammed the door behind him. She had a perfect opportunity… but leaving a wounded soldier to die didn’t sit right with her. She headed down the stairs and immediately moved towards the source of the screaming.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Mercedes said in German. “I’m here to help. Where’s it at?”

 _“N-No bandage,”_ Distler yelled. _“No fucking bandage!”_

“That’s okay, I have enough,” Mercedes replied. She unrolled one of her precious bandages and felt around. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it’d keep the blood in for a while longer at least. Long enough for a German medic to arrive and move them somewhere where Distler could get proper treatment.

 _“Thank you,”_ Distler muttered. _“It still hurts like fucking hell, though.”_

“It will for a while. Be safe, alright?” Mercedes stood up and began to head for the door until Distler reached out with her arm and grabbed her sleeve.

_“Wait, stay here? In case Klaproth doesn’t come back?”_

Mercedes paused. She had to leave, she knew she did. And yet, if this soldier should somehow die… would that be on her? Would that weigh on her mind? Rationally it wasn’t her fault, she had done her duty, but… “I can’t,” she said. “I have to go back to my unit now.”

She left Distler behind, moving more quickly when Klaproth’s voice carried alongside the noise of a group of soldiers running down the cobblestone street. Metz at night looked far different than she remembered. Fires, intentionally set to provide warmth to the Germans, lit up different parts of the town like torches in the night signaling areas to avoid. She had to get out of Metz and hope that her unit had managed to reoccupy their former positions or at least found the French. Moving through the streets felt like going through a maze with no clear end.

A fire neared. She had no other option and had to encroach upon it, risking exposure to the light and the eyes of somebody else that’d surely see she was not German. Two soldiers stood near the fire, with one thumbing through a small collection of items in a box.

_“What’d you find?_

_“Just some stuff. Doesn’t look all that important. Hey, you believe the rumors? That we’re fighting Greeks here?”_

The soldier shrugged, warming his hands by the fire. _“I don’t know. I didn’t see any blue uniforms today, that’s for sure.”_

_“Aren’t you colorblind? How’d you know?”_

_“I know what blue looks like, asshole. I’m not getting into this with you again, what do you even have there?_ ”

_“A cross. Kinda weird, though. Got something on it.”_

The standing soldier snatched up the cross and turned it over in his hands. _“Looks like Polish written backwards.”_

_“Think it’s Greek, then?”_

_“Do I look like I fucking speak Greek?”_ He threw the cross back into the box and shivered. _“Fucking Greek… I don’t know…”_

Mercedes kept her breathing slow and steady as she moved low, hiding behind small staircases and landings as she tried to avoid drawing too much attention to herself. They hadn’t spotted her yet, and she didn’t think they would as long as she kept moving carefully. It took a while before she neared a small alleyway that allowed her to escape unseen.

By the time she reached Metz’s outskirts, it was nearly 3am. The sun would be coming up in a few hours, precious little time to get back to her lines. She ran as far and as fast as her legs would take her, ignoring the heat that came with her body telling her she was pushing herself too hard. It must have been nearly a _versta_ and a half from Metz itself to where she remembered the trenches being. How far had she even ran? Mercedes had no heavenly way of knowing and this alone filled her with despair as her legs became like lead weights. She fell into a trench, but it wasn’t her own. It was one of the German ones they had taken the other day. She looked up to the sky full of stars glimmering in their multitude and scarce to be counted. Mercedes could navigate by these, but it wasn’t enough.

_Philippians 4:6._

* * *

_June 8 th, 1908_

_Garreg Mach Monastery, Bohemia_

Mercedes had probably done her best job baking yet. She had a basket full of biscuits that Raphael raved over as well as the _pryaniki_ he loved so much – she disliked making them except on special occasions mostly because of how long it took and the dough proving difficult to handle sometimes – purely for his own enjoyment. There’d be no shared snacking today, unless that’s what Raphael wanted. She had decided today was to be the day when she finally told Raphael exactly how she felt. After all, a year together surely meant they were _together_ together, right? She hoped so. Mercedes couldn’t help but hum one of her favorite songs as she headed towards his room.

It was going well until she literally ran into him.

“Oh, sorry Mercedes!” Raphael said. He looked down to see the various baked goods scattered on the ground. “Oh, jeez, I’m _really_ sorry. You must’ve spent a lot of time on these.”

“That’s alright!” Mercedes reassured. “There’s still plenty for you to have!”

Raphael paused, and it took this pause for Mercedes to look at him and see what had made him do so. He had a bag on his back, which looked overflowing to the brim with… everything he had? And where was his uniform?

“R-Raphael…” Mercedes puzzled, blinking rapidly as she tried to figure out what was happening. “Why are you dressed like that? It’s not a weekend…”

He pensively sighed as he looked down on the ground. “Well, uh… I’m really sorry, Mercedes, but… I enlisted in the German Army. I gotta go to Dresden.”

It felt like Mercedes had just been punched in the gut. Every little bit of enthusiasm and joy in her life had just been sapped out and thrown onto the ground. She could feel her smile fading from her lips. Was she about to cry or did she just really _want_ to right now?

“I… but…”

Raphael took his free arm and wrapped her in a hug, squeezing her tight. _Did he know? Had he known the whole time?_ “I’m really sorry, Mercedes. I know you like spending time with me, but I can’t pay to stay here.”

Mercedes found herself flatfooted and statuesque as Raphael pulled back. Every fiber of her being called out for Mercedes to do _something_ , like the unthinkable act of reaching out and kissing him for what may be the first and last time. And yet, she did nothing.

“Raphael…” she muttered. She was so quiet he didn’t hear her. “R-Raphael!”

“Yeah?”

“I…” The words formed in her throat and immediately shut themselves in. “Remember Philippians 4:6, Raphael. _Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God."_

He took a moment to think this over and nodded. “No offense, but it’s a bit late for prayer for me, Mercedes. Thank you though, I’ll keep that in mind during training. And I’ll write to you, okay?”

This was the breaking point for her, unfortunately. She felt the tears roll down her cheeks and did her best to keep all of her emotions in. “Th-thank you, Raphael. That’s very sweet. I’d enjoy that very much.”

Mercedes watched Raphael leave with her heart full of ache. Once he disappeared beyond the monastery walls, she gathered the dropped baked goods and made sure to keep them separate from the still-good ones. Ingrid and Annette would appreciate them, surely. She dropped them off outside their common room without a word, silently retreating back to her bed in order to muffle the sound of her crying. She lamented everything, from not being brave enough to speak her own truth to losing the dearest friend she ever had, even if that friend never knew how much she loved him.

* * *

_January 9 th, 1918_

_Somewhere near Metz, German Empire_

Mercedes reached their trenches just before dawn broke. Her legs screamed in angry protest. Her uniform was bloodstained and dirty. She was straight-up _exhausted._ Stumbling into camp felt almost like being a specter everyone could see like in the ghost stories she used to read at Garreg Mach. Everyone said they were glad to see her, and she believed it. Many believed she had died when she didn’t return, and Mercedes conceded that was a fair assessment to make.

“I thought you died out there,” _Podpolkovnik_ Lomtev said, immediately hugging her. It was a rare show of emotion and care from him.

“I thought I might have, too,” she said. “I… I need a minute, sir. If you don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “No, go ahead. I’ll have somebody bring you a clean uniform.”

The trenches had changed since she was last here. Familiar routes were caved in as a result of German artillery fire, the snow had been shaken loose and scattered along the duckboards, and pieces of wood jutted out ready to cut anybody who wasn’t cautious. Lieutenant Bogatyryov was dead. One of the sergeants that reminded Mercedes of Professor Eisner was missing, presumed captured. The dead and wounded filled up the medical tent, and she could hear their pained groans even from the forward trench. Familiar faces were sorely absent.

She moved towards her bed in the officer’s quarters dugout. Nothing had ever felt better in her life. Her _veshmeshok_ had been brought back by somebody and tossed in the corner with her other things, expected to be sent back to Russia alongside a death notice. Getting up, Mercedes undid the slipknot and took out the carefully packed and maintained bundle of letters that made up each one she had gotten from Raphael. They’d kept in contact up until the war broke out, and she knew the only reason the letters ended after that was because they both understood sending letters to “the enemy” was a treasonous offense.

Mercedes couldn’t help but wonder if he was alright. Each letter was like reliving a memory, as comfortable and warming as a good pair of shoes. When this war was over, she should find his friend Ignatz. He’d surely know where to find Raphael in case her letters never reached his home. She read and reread the letters several times, wondering why in each one she never bothered to confess how she felt, until finally she fell asleep for a well-deserved rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Podpolkovnik: Russian Imperial Army rank, equivalent to Lieutenant Colonel  
> Medovnik: A layered honey cake popular in Russia, made mostly of honey and smetana (a particular Eastern European sour cream)  
> Gott mit Uns: German, “God is with us”; commonly featured on German belt buckles during WWI and WWII  
> Tankgewehr: Early German compound word for “anti-tank rifle”  
> Versta: Russian unit of measurement used prior to the adoption of the metric system; equivalent to 3,500 feet  
> Pryaniki: Russian honey spice cookies, commonly served with tea  
> Veshmeshok: Russian backpack which essentially is an open sack with a single strap tied in a slipknot


End file.
